


Work our way slow to the start

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: AU, Author's Favorite, F/M, Pregnant Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megan sat on the bed, sheets rucked up around her, and stared at the ring in Don’s hand. She pressed her hand to her mouth in shock. It was a beautiful ring on a beautiful morning. She should have been happier about that.</p>
<p>Instead she felt numb, like this was all happening to someone else. She wished, abruptly, that she had never come to California. She couldn’t find the words she needed - she was going to hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Megan turns down Don's proposal, but that doesn't make anything easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Neko Case song "Whip the Blankets". This started out as an attempt to write some pregnant sex PWP - then I got attacked by a plot.

 

Megan sat on the bed, sheets rucked up around her, and stared at the ring in Don’s hand. She pressed her hand to her mouth in shock. It was a beautiful ring on a beautiful morning. She should have been happier about that.

Instead she felt numb, like this was all happening to someone else. She wished, abruptly, that she had never come to California. She couldn’t find the words she needed - she was going to hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt him.

He saw her answer in her eyes before she said anything at all. “Oh,” he said, very quietly, and snapped the jewellery box shut.

She touched his hand but he moved away, toward the window. He stood facing it, looking out the window, or maybe down at the ring. Megan couldn’t tell. She couldn’t see his face, just the breadth of his shoulders, his straight back.

“I thought this was going to be a beginning,” he said. “I was so sure. And instead I made it an ending.”

“ _Don_ ,” she said, getting out of bed and crossing the room in a flash. He shut his eyes when she turned cupped his cheek. But she needed him to look at her. “This doesn’t have to be the end of anything.”

That did it; he closed his fingers around her wrist, rubbing the skin with his thumb. He was listening.

“This is just moving too fast,” she said. “I’m not trying to break up with you. I want to get to know you better - that’s the whole point. If we try and force things - we could ruin them. We have so much _time_ , Don. Can you see that?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I am -”

She shushed him. “It’s fine. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Don kissed her fingers, the inside of her wrist; she slipped the buttons of his shirt loose, her mouth on the side of his neck. They went back to bed and messed up the sheets some more. She didn’t know what he did with the ring but she never saw it again. After they showered Megan put on her bathrobe and collected the kids from across the hall. Sally was sleepy and grumpy, but cheered up at the prospect of waffles.

They drove the kids back to their mother’s and Megan held Don’s hand while she watched the road fly past . He smiled at her, soft and slightly puzzled, like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there. She thought that everything was going to be okay.

 

Megan wasn’t Don’s secretary for much longer. He moved her to the creative team, which was -

She was grateful, truly. It was better, more interesting work and a pay grade up the scale. There could be no complaining about any of that. But everyone was so awkward around her. Conversations stopped as soon as she stepped through the door. No one could speak to her naturally. Peggy hovered between irritation and apology every time she had to give Megan instructions.

They knew she was seeing Don. Of course they did - he was the unseen guest in every room. And that was when he wasn’t there in person.

Because he usually was. He sat in on their brainstorming sessions, he took Megan for lunch, and he was always trying to get her to take afternoons off. He just wanted to spend time with her.

It wasn’t helping. Megan had wanted to keep their relationship quiet, but had succumbed to Don’s arguments about living honestly. She was starting to think that was a mistake.

She threw Don a birthday party. It didn’t turn out like she hoped, and she didn’t know why. She thought he would like it - he was so adamant about being public as a couple, so why not bring their friends together? It was a fun night, too. But Don didn’t enjoy himself - she could tell even if he never said it out loud, and Megan lay awake that night trying to determine where she had gone wrong. She fell asleep without finding an answer.

Everyone was doing impressions of her at work the next day. They were so obvious about it - nobody cared if it embarrassed her. Peggy was the only one who was kind. She told Megan that she had liked her singing, and also that they would all be gossiping about something else in a week’s time. “They have short attention spans,” she said with a smile. Which was true, but Megan was still mortified every time a new rendition of _Zou Zou Bisou_ floated out of somebody’s office.

One lunchtime Megan ducked into the creative office to avoid Don. She had work to do, the same deadlines as everyone else, and if she kept avoiding it she was going to get run out of town on a rail.

The room was already occupied. Michael Ginsberg, the new copywriter, was sitting at his desk with half of a sandwich raised to his mouth. He gave her a quizzical look and she lifted a finger to her lips.

Don knocked on the door. Megan darted to the side, shaking her head. _Please_ , she mouthed silently when Michael put his sandwich down and stood up.

He took mercy on her. “Yeah?” he said, and opened the door just a crack.

“Have you seen Megan?” Don asked.

Megan could hear him take a couple of steps forward. She shut her eyes and tried to become invisible.

“No,” said Michael. “Isn’t she with you?”

There was a pause. Megan could almost hear Don grinding his teeth. “Would I have asked you if she was with me?”

“How should I know?” Michael asked. “Are you gonna come in and see if I’m hiding her under the desk? I’m trying to eat here.”

Apparently Don took him at his word, because Michael closed the door and turned to Megan. “What the hell was that about? You two in a fight? I don’t want to be involved in that. Don doesn’t like me already.”

“We’re not fighting,” said Megan, sitting down at Peggy’s desk. It was covered with office debris, balled up paper and pencils and a couple of mugs with lipstick smudged on the rim. “It’s hard to explain.”

She was taken aback by her own reaction. It was disproportionate; a wave of relief chasing a hummingbird-quick heartbeat. She felt so odd. It reminded her of being on a rollercoaster, the sick thrill of the ground coming up to meet her only to find out that she was strapped in, safe, after all.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said again, flustered and going pink. Why did he care, anyway? It wasn’t any of his concern if she was fighting with her boyfriend.

“Fine,” he said, clearly opting out. He went back to his desk and his lunch. Megan fiddled with a pen on Peggy’s desk and wondered if she should risk venturing into the lounge to get her half-finished brief.

“You hungry?”

“What?”

“I was asking if you ate anything yet.”

She hadn’t, and her stomach growled as if on cue. That was embarrassing.

Which must have shown in her face. “Don’t worry,” Michael said, “I get like that myself. Here.” He held out the untouched half of his sandwich, still wrapped in wax paper.

“Thanks,” she murmured, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was chicken salad with lettuce.

In the end it was Michael who went into the lounge and collected her things. They shared his desk, typing on opposite sides and reading their work to each other. He was full of opinions about what hers should sound like, and when she gave him a glare for his troubles it bounced right off him.

“Sorry,” he said, not the slightest bit apologetic, “but I am _very_ good at this.”

“So am I,” she said, without matching his confidence. The truth was that she found it all a bit dull. She had seen Peggy come out of meetings with her color high and her eyes glowing and had wanted some of that excitement for herself. Yet it had never manifested, no matter how much effort she put in or how seriously she took the job. But wasn’t that true with everything, that it looked better from the outside?

“If it helps.” he said with a grin, “it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, it is,” he insisted. “This wasn’t even my day job. It’s just the only thing I ever had a, y’know, real affinity for. You feel like that about anything?”

“I used to be an actress,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Though it’s more accurate to say that I _tried_ to be an actress.”

“You came to New York for the bright lights of Broadway?”

“Not exactly. I went to California because - because obviously I wanted to be a movie star.” He laughed when she said that, but not in a mean way. Like he understood, and maybe he did. She wasn’t the only one who knew something about thwarted dreams. “Anyway,” she continued, “when that didn’t happen I came to New York. There’s a good theatre scene here, and it’s not far from Montreal. So I can visit home if I want to.”

Her mother had wanted her to come home, period. She had never wholly approved of Megan’s ambitions. She said they were childish, or unstable, or just plain unlikely. Megan wondered how many dead dreams trailed after Marie, and which ones she thought about when the bedroom was dark and the hours were long.

“So are you good at it? Acting?”

Megan didn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t know. I suppose that depends on what the audience thinks.”

“That’d bother me - having to depend on an audience like that. What if they’re wrong?”

“Don’t you do that every day?” she asked. Pleasing a client or a crowd of ticket-holders, it made no difference; nothing could happen without their approval. And she had seen him make pitches, all showmanship and expressive hand gestures. He enjoyed the spotlight as much as she did.

He had been typing, faced turned down and fingers on the keys. Now he looked up with a frown. “I never thought of it like that.”

“Everyone is beholden to someone. That’s what my grandmother always said.” Of course, Grand-mère also had a two pack a day habit and three husbands. One of them she had married twice. She might not have been the best choice for a role model.

“That’s not the point, though. Look at it this way: if they picked you, they were right. And if they didn’t, they were wrong.”

Michael would think like that. He must have to - his whole career was one long audition. There could be something in his advice. Megan had never been good with rejection, but maybe she could learn how to be.

“Is that all it takes, for you?”

“That’s all it takes for anybody,” he said. He pointed towards the door with his thumb. “You think any of those assholes out there would lend me a hand? I don’t. Nobody who was born with a silver spoon in their mouth ever gave a shit about guys like me. So I gotta do it myself. And I couldn’t if I didn’t tell myself that I could. Talent is only half the equation.”

Megan nodded. “I think I see what you mean.”

“Good,” he said. “Now I’m gonna ask again - Megan, are you a good actress?”

“Yes,” she said, a spontaneous smile spreading across her face.

“There you go,” he said and actually looked proud of her, like she had done something special. It was surprisingly nice.

Of course that was when Don opened the door.

Megan tried to control her face. She wanted to laugh, or flee, or pretend she couldn’t see him.

“You said she wasn’t here,” Don said, speaking to Michael like she wasn’t even in the room. Irritation washed away any guilt Megan was suffering from.

“I wasn’t, and now I am,” Megan said, lying with an ease that was unusual for her. Maybe he could tell and maybe he couldn’t. She didn’t care and met his eyes directly. “Do you need something? I have to get this finished.”

Don looked away first. “Then I won’t bother you.”

He said it so flatly that she knew there would be trouble later, but that wasn’t going to deter her. She had every right to have time to herself. God, they weren’t one person - he needed to learn that.

So she held her ground even though she knew what he wanted and it would have been easier to give it to him. “Okay,” she said, and very specifically did not tell him that she would see him later. And then she waited for him leave.

He took his time, but finally went through the door with a sideways glance at Michael. Megan typed out a line for something to do. She did not look after him.

“I’m impressed,” said Michael, raising his eyebrows. “I wish I could get rid of him that quick.”

“ _Michael_.” Megan chided, but only halfheartedly. She was still nervous, still had the goosebumps and clammy skin of a post adrenaline-rush comedown, but -

She was pretty impressed with herself too.

 

Megan did fight with Don that night. It ended with her slamming the bathroom door in his face, refusing to come out. He rattled the doorknob, and briefly she thought he would try and pick the lock, but he never did. She stayed in there, sitting on the toilet boiling mad and fuming about what an asshole Don was, what a complete prick, on and on until there was no anger left. Just exhaustion and doubt.

Don was asleep on the couch when she came out. When she woke him up he apologized, and was really very sweet, and she didn’t take a cab home after all.

“I hate fighting with you,” she said, lying next to him in bed. “No matter how good the making up is.”

He smiled at that and held her close to him. “Then we won’t do it any more.”

In the morning she found a bouquet on her desk, richly scented roses. She had to put them out at the reception desk - the smell was too much for such a small room.

 

Eating lunch with Michael became a regular thing. They stayed in the office most of the time but she could occasionally convince him to go out. They went to her favorite Italian joint, and for sushi because he had never eaten it.

“How have you never had sushi?” she asked. “You live in New York.”

“It’s raw fish,” he said. “I thought I’d get bugs or something.The idea of eating raw meat doesn’t creep you out?”

“It’s a delicacy, Michael. Stop being a baby.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not.”

“Prove it,” she said, in a tone that couldn’t mean anything but _dare you_.

So she introduced him to sushi, and also to sake. Maybe a little too much to sake, because they went back to the office and kept giggling at each other all afternoon, cracking up over the stupidest things. Peggy actually sent them outside for a timeout at one point. They sat in the lobby of the building and tried to compose themselves.

“Don’t look at me,” Michael begged, “You’ll get me going again.”

Of course she did, and she didn’t regret it because she hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time. They went back upstairs when they had worn themselves out. Megan’s stomach hurt but she was still giddy.

“The sushi wasn’t so bad,” Michael admitted when they were in the elevator.

“I told you,” said Megan. “I have the best ideas. Where do you want to go next?”

“Oh god,” he said. “You can pick. But look - no booze this time. That stuff was stronger than it tasted.”

French food, she decided. It would be new to him. Someplace with a decent wine selection.

Don didn’t like her lunches with Michael. There was a lot he didn’t like, as she was discovering. They were as far from their honeymoon period as possible. Megan had a name for this new phase of their relationship: fight and fuck.

That was all they did. Huge, crockery-smashing arguments that started in the car on the way home and didn’t stop until they were fucking on the carpet. The sex was good - the sex was always good. But nothing else was.

Megan thought this kind of passion was romantic, once. She had fantasized about it - a man who wanted her so badly that he would tear down walls to get to her. Living with it was another thing.

She started to spend more nights in her own apartment, twitching every time the phone rang. Don called less and less, would sometimes disappear midway through the day and not tell anyone where he was going. Megan never asked him, either. She was sure any answer he gave would be one she didn’t like. Yet she wasn’t brave enough to end it - she danced around the issue as much as Don did.

It was in this atmosphere of discontent that Megan did something very stupid.

Don was supposed to go with her to a party Julia was throwing. She got changed at the office, tucking her discarded work dress into her desk drawer to take home tomorrow. And then she waited for Don to get back from a meeting with Mohawk.

He didn’t show, of course. She should have expected it. He was making a fool of her, over and over again, and she kept letting him.

She ran into Michael on her way out - in the literal sense. So blind was her fury that she didn’t see him until she was on top of him. They collided in front of the elevators.

“Jeez, you’re going somewhere fast,” he said. “What are you all dolled up for?”

“Don’s an asshole,” she said.

He blinked. “Okay?”

“I’m sorry.” She put her hands over her face, and then threw them up in frustration. “He stood me up. I’m so sick of this.”

And her friends were all sick of hearing about it. Megan could see the future and it wasn’t pretty. She was in danger of becoming bitter if she kept on this path.

Fuck it, she decided. Fuck Don and his bullshit. She was going to go to her friend’s party and dance and feel _young_ again.

“To hell with Don,” she said to Michael. “I’m going to a party. Want to come?”

“I - yeah, uh. Sure?” he said nervously, “I’m not good at them, though. Parties. I might insult your friends by accident. Or say something embarrassing. Or -”

“Michael, stop. You’ll be fine. Trust me that you can’t insult these people.”

“You sure about that?” he said. “I have a knack for it.”

“They’ll love you. I promise.”

“If you say so,” he said with great doubt, but followed her into the elevator all the same.

She reached over and took his tie off somewhere around the fourth floor. “No,” she said when he protested. “You are not wearing that thing out socially.”

“Fine,” he said, and put it in his pants pocket. “Do I pass inspection, or do you have any other suggestions?”

“One,” she said, and messed up his hair. Just a little.

“Megan!”

“What? It looks good,” she said, and he did look good. Michael really should make more of his appearance, she thought. He was the very definition of hiding your light under a bushel.

The light was low and the music was loud at when they got to Julia’s. People were scattered around the apartment, draped bonelessly across the furniture making out or passing a joint back and forth.The smoky air smelled herbal-sweet from all the grass.

“You’re here!” Julia said, coming over with a bottle of vodka cradled lovingly in one arm. “You and … um?”

“Julia, this is Michael. He works with me.” Megan shot Julia a look that was intended to communicate the situation with Don or at least stop her from bringing him up. She didn’t want to discuss it right now.

“Hi,” said Michael, shaking Julia’s hand. “Thanks for inviting me. Or for inviting Megan, who invited me.”

“Nice to meet you, Michael,” said Julia. “There’s beer in the fridge if you want some.”

“Okay, who is he?” Julia asked once Michael had gone to get the beer. “Do you have a new boyfriend? I feel like I should know about that.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Julia looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the kitchen. “So he’s single?”

“Put your eyes back in your head,” Megan said sternly. “He’s an innocent.”

“Not your boyfriend, huh?” Julia mocked, and waltzed off to prey on some other poor soul.

Megan and Michael found a spot near the record player. He tried to sit on the arm of the couch, but kept getting bumped into - there was a couple swaying back and forth to the music, careless, arms looped around each other. Megan shuffled over, nudging the guy next to her into unhanding his girlfriend long enough to move, and beckoned Michael down. He crammed himself into the small space provided. They were pressed together from shoulder to thigh.

“We could sit on the floor if you’re uncomfortable,” said Megan.

“I’m good,” he said, but he was peeling the label off his beer in long anxious strips.

She pulled his hand away from it gently. “You don’t need to be so nervous. My friends are going to like you. Because I like you.”

He smiled at that, his honest smile, and it changed his face completely. He could look so sad, sometimes, with those eyes. Megan noticed again how handsome he was. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before.

“You could do better with girls, you know,” she said, and the smile dropped off his face immediately.

“What does mean?” he asked. He didn’t move but she could still feel the way he drew back from her. Getting protective.

“It was a compliment. I wasn’t making fun of you. Or saying that you had to - you can be a bachelor forever if you want.” Maybe he didn’t like girls at all. She wished she hadn’t brought it up if that was the case. It wasn’t like he lived in the Village with a bunch of artists, where he could do something about that.

“Does bachelor mean what I think it does?” he asked gruffly, scraping at the glue left on the bottle with his thumbnail.

“Michael -”

“It’s okay. You’re not the first person to think that.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice, but no one was paying any attention to them in any case. Everyone was stoned or drunk or occupied. “I like girls just fine. I swear I do. But I’m not - I’m not like any of the other guys I knew either. In that area.”

“Well, that’s fine. You’re not the only one in the world. No one here would care.”

“No?” he said, and when he looked at her she could see that he had never considered that a possibility; he had assumed from the start that he was alone in the universe.

“Of course not,” Megan said. “There are all sorts out there. Use your imagination.”

“Thanks,” he said, quietly. “And I really do like girls. I’m not lying about that.”

“I know.”

“You, for example, are very attractive.” His flush could have been from the heat or the closeness of the room but she didn’t think so.

“I know,” she said, and grinned at him.

Megan got up and switched the record. “Come on,” she said. “I want to dance.”

“With me? You sure about that?,” he said, but let her pull him off the couch. She put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. He had no more objections, curiously.

They danced through a few songs. It was so warm, an aggressive September heat wave - they were both sweating, skin shining with it. Megan felt too light-headed to blame it on her solitary beer. His hands moved from her waist to her hips at some point and she played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He liked that - he swallowed, and licked his lips, and said her name. “Megan,” he said. “We should -”

That was when Megan did her stupid thing, her very stupid thing, and kissed him. Not chastely, but deep and hungry. And he let her - he responded eagerly, the fabric of her dress balled up in his hands. The room fell away. They might have been on the moon for all she knew. Michael kissed her until her lips tingled, until suddenly he broke away, letting go of her altogether and stepping back.

He was panting. “Holy shit,” he said. “We can’t do this. This is such a bad idea.”

“Michael -”

“Megan, you’re dating my _boss_.”

Megan looked down at her feet. Her throat was tight and her good mood gone, just like that. “This isn’t about him,” she said, and though it was true she knew that it didn’t matter. It looked terrible, so completely suspicious - like she was using Michael, like she didn’t care about him at all. She wished she had never heard the name Don Draper. Nothing had gone right since California.

“We should forget about it,” Michael said. “It wasn’t like we were going anywhere, you and me.” The resignation in his voice was awful. And she couldn’t do anything about it. He would never believe her, now.

She still tried. “I was having such a good time. I always do, when I’m with you.”

“But you’re with someone else.”

“I know I am,” she said, and the _but_ stayed in her mouth because there was no way around it; she was with someone else. She had a boyfriend. There was nothing she could say.

“I’d better go,” he said. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“You can stay if you want. I can leave. I’ll leave.”

“Megan, I just want to go home.” For the first time he sounded angry. “I don’t even know these people.”

“Okay,” she said, and bit her lip because she could feel tears starting. God, not _now_.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered. “I’m serious - it kills me when you do that. C’mon, stop.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” she sniffed. She wasn’t doing anything on purpose. That was the problem.

“Go have fun with your friends,” he said. “You might as well. Somebody should salvage this night.”

“Be careful going home,” she said. “Don’t get mugged.”

“I’ll do my best. And you take a cab when you decide to leave - don’t go wandering around alone in the dark. Take care of yourself out there.” It was nothing he wouldn’t have said anyway, he was a compulsive worrier - but not in _that_ tone of voice, not at all. A bad liar was a bad liar, and he couldn’t disguise a goodbye.

Julia found Megan sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, staring morosely across the room. She slid in next to her and sat in silence. The party went on around them and Megan’s record was still playing. She didn’t have the energy to get up and take it off.

“Are you okay?” Julia asked after a suitable waiting period.

Megan rested her head on her friend’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know,” she said, and closed her eyes.

 

Don was waiting for her when she got home. She wasn’t surprised.

“No,” she said, unlocking her door. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what your excuses are. Not tonight.”

“Megan - “ he said, and put a hand on her shoulder.

She slapped it away and turned on him. He stood there, so contrite with his hat in his hands, and in that moment she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

“You’re being irrational. I was late getting to the office. If you had waited for me -”

“I am always _waiting_ for you! That’s all I do anymore.”

Don’s lips thinned, but he was still trying to play the rational one, just a man trying to deal with his crazy, over-emotional girlfriend. “Do you know how you sound right now? The neighbors can hear you.”

“I know you’re seeing someone,” Megan said, and watched a jolt of fear go through him with absolute pleasure. “I’m not nearly as stupid as you think I am.”

It only lasted a second, but she had seen the mask drop. That was all the confirmation she needed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but she didn’t listen to him. She would never listen to him him again.

“I went to the party with someone else,” she said. “I kissed him, and I wanted to go to bed with him.” She smiled sourly and held out her arms, a parody of an embrace. “Still want me back, baby?”

That got him. “Who is he?” he asked, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Who is _she_?” Megan shot back. He would never tell her. She didn’t care - it didn’t matter who it was. They were so beyond salvaging. “Maybe I should ask Betty. I bet she could come up with a few candidates.”

Don’s eyes went dark at the mention of his ex-wife’s name, but he didn’t flinch. His armour was back on. “In California,” he said, maddeningly calm, “when you came to me. It was about the job, wasn’t it? You got what you wanted.”

Megan came dangerously close to hitting him. She didn’t know what would have happened if she had. Instead she bit the inside of her cheeks, letting the pain clear her head. “I want you to get out,” she said, clearly, voice almost steady. “And I never want to see you again.”

He left. She thought he might try to stay just to spite her, but he left.

Megan went to bed without even washing her makeup off. All the anger left her in a rush. There was nothing but fatigue left behind. She didn’t cry at all. The last thing she could remember thinking before sleep took her was: _it’s over. Finally, it’s over_.

 

Megan was fired the next day. It was only what she expected.

It was Joan who did it. Don didn’t have the courage to face her, so he sent someone else in to do his dirty work. Megan took some consolation in the possibility that Joan might murder him for it later.

She was as kind as she could be.

“I will, of course, be writing you a letter of recommendation,” she said. “You’ve done well here. If not for personal considerations,” and here Joan made a face like she had smelled something distasteful, “I would very much like for you to stay.”

“Thank you,” said Megan, and it was that kindness that did her in. There were tears running down her cheeks by time she got back to creative, clutching her empty box.

“What’s going on?” Peggy asked.

“I’m so sorry,” said Megan. “I’m not going to work here anymore.”

“Did he fire you?” Michael demanded, jumping to his feet. “That son of a bitch!”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Megan said. “I’m fine with it, I really am.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and that was when she saw Michael’s jaw set in a terribly stubborn way. The look on his face didn’t bode well.

“He can’t get away with this,” he said. “and I’m going to fucking tell him so.”

He was out the door before anyone could stop him.

“Ginsberg!” yelled Peggy, but it was too late. “Shit. Stan, you help Megan. I have to go get him.”

“I got it,” said Stan, and then Peggy was gone too. Stan helped her pack up - there wasn’t much. She never brought in pictures, or anything like that.

“I don’t want Michael to get in trouble,” Megan said. She didn’t want to drag him down with her - this job really meant something to him.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Stan, but that was when they heard the shouting in the hall.

They got to the door just in time to see Michael and Peggy going past. Peggy’s face was ashen. A security guard had Michael by the arm and was dragging him towards reception. He was thoroughly furious, tie askew and mouth drawn tight in a hard angry line.

“What did you do?” Megan asked in horror, but the guard wouldn’t let him slow down long enough to answer her.

 He looked back over his shoulder, once, before being pulled out of sight.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf was still in the theatre come fall of '66. For the purposes of this story we're going to pretend it is.

 

 

Ginsberg went home. He had white-knuckled it the whole way, trying to concentrate on breathing - in, out, in, out - because he could feel the panic coming for him. They hadn’t even allowed him back in to get his things - thank god he had his wallet in his pocket. Peggy would send him the rest of it, maybe.

He went to bed still in his work clothes and slept until his father came home from an afternoon shift. “Why are you home so early,” Morris said, shaking him awake, “you sick?”

“No,” said Ginsberg, “I got fired.” He rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was almost dinnertime when he emerged from his room, a headache pulsing behind his eyes and feeling like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. There was nothing for it - he was going to have to crawl from the wreck and see what he had done to his life. Time to evaluate the damage.

“So why’d you get fired?” Morris asked, and the unspoken _this time_ hung in the air between them.

“It’s complicated,” Ginsberg said, but it wasn’t really. He lost his temper on behalf of a girl he was never going to see again. He didn’t even have her phone number.

Peggy came by the next day. She had a small file box in her hands - there wasn’t a lot in it. A spare set of keys, his thermos, a cheap wristwatch, and a pair of gloves he was pretty sure didn’t actually belong to him. It was pathetic, laid out like that. He sure didn’t make much of an impact on the place.

“Thanks,” he told Peggy, taking the box from her. They were standing in the hallway - he didn’t want to invite her in. The apartment was a mess. “You didn’t have to come all the way up here.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Me?” he said, “I’m fine. I do this every three weeks. You’ve seen my resume.”

‘We had to hire freelancers at work,” she said. “They’re terrible.”

“Good,” he said, and wanted to ask if she had heard from Megan. Probably not. They weren’t friends.

“I don’t mind being a reference,” Peggy said, crossing her arms and looking down at her shoes. “If you want.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I may take you up on that.” She was a good sort, Peggy. He’d owe her big - he didn’t have many people who would go to bat for him at this point.

In the end even Peggy’s reference didn’t help him. He started looking for work right away, got his portfolio in order and took daily trips into the city to pass it around. Nothing but radio silence. Desperate, he called his old workplaces to see if they were looking for anyone. He was fine with freelancing, he said, anything they had.

Nobody was interested. The lady at Leo Burnett hung up on him outright.

He was out of work for a month before catching a break. It didn’t come the way he wanted it to, but he wasn’t in any position to complain.

“I got a job,” he told his father that night. They were eating dinner and Morris looked so happy that Ginsberg thought he was going to come around the table and hug him. “Hold on a second,” he said in warning, “it’s not copywriting.”

“Then what -”

“Working with Carmine.”

“Michael,” Morris said, face falling. “Construction? You sure about this?”

“I’m aware that I’m a shrimp, thanks.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Morris gestured to himself. “What do you think gave me these back problems - you want to end up a beat-up old man?”

“I don’t plan to do it forever,” said Ginsberg, cutting into his meat with a vengeance. “Just ‘till I find something better.”

“You don’t have to settle. We won’t be out on the streets if you don’t work right this second.”

“I’m not settling,” Ginsberg muttered. “I’m - being _realistic_.”

Morris didn’t like that but there was nothing he could do about it. A job was a job, and Ginsberg would be damned if he was going to have to ask his father for money for razors or new shoes, like a stupid kid. He was going to contribute to the household. He’d done worse for less - they both had.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Nothing he didn’t know already.

 

That didn’t mean it was easy. He had some problems keeping up - he wasn’t the strongest guy out there. But he wasn’t lazy and he had lots of energy. That helped with the learning curve.

The guys were okay about it. He knew some of them - they were neighborhood boys. Carmine had grown up a couple of doors down, with his parents who only spoke Italian at home and four older sisters. He had given Ginsberg his first and only cigarette, an adventure that ended with Ginsberg vomiting and Carmine laughing his ass off. At least on a construction site nobody got offended if he said fuck when he hit himself with a hammer, which he did more often than he cared to admit.

He came home sore and dirty every day, didn’t even want to touch anything until he’d had a shower. Then he would lay on his bed, dozing lightly until he heard his father’s keys in the lock.

He tried to get at least one afternoon a week off to go spread some resumes around, and called a headhunter that Peggy recommended. So far his efforts had yielded zilch and every hour he missed at work came out of his paycheck. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep beating the same dead horse. It was starting to seem pointless.

The upside was that he had money again. He kept busy on the weekends, cleaning the apartment, running errands, going for walks. Carmine invited him over to his parent’s place for Sunday dinner, and his mother fed them cannoli and clucked her tongue over what skinny boys they were.

“Me, maybe,” said Carmine. “But Mike’s getting chubby. You better not give him any more, Ma.”

Ginsberg kicked him under the table. “You just want it for yourself.”

He went to a movie one Saturday in late November. _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf_ , which he thought might be about the writer, though Liz Taylor was a weird choice to play her. It turned out to be about how rich people were mean and also drunk most of the time. Par for the course, as far as Ginsberg could tell.

“Jesus,” he said out loud as the credits rolled. “That was depressing.”

Someone stood up in one of the rows ahead of him. It was a lady - he could see the shape of long hair in the dark, but not her face.

“Michael?” she said, and he came halfway out of his seat because he knew that voice.

“Megan?” he said, trying to remember if he had shaved that morning. And he needed a haircut. He should have gotten a haircut.

“It _is_ you.” She came towards him as the lights turned back on. Her hair was loose and unstyled and she was wearing a white coat with a big collar. She looked just as good as always.

“Yeah,” he said, crossing and then uncrossing his arms, too self conscious to know what to do with them. “So how have you been?”

She hugged him out of nowhere, clutching him to her like he was something she had lost and never expected to get back. “I am so glad to see you.”

“I - great. I missed you too,” he said, and could feel his face go red at how idiotic that was.

“Sit down with me for a minute,” she said, and he did. She smiled big at him but her eyes were tired, like she should be home taking a nap instead of watching upsetting art films.

“Did they have a kid or what?” he asked, to keep from saying one of the million other things that were bouncing around his head. “That part confused me.”

“No,” Megan said. “They never had a kid.” She frowned and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Michael, look -”

“Was it because of me?” There it was, the thing he had tried to prevent from escaping. Him and his big mouth. “Did you get fired because we - because of what we did?”

“No. Not exactly.” She sighed and shook her head. “I broke it off with Don. I knew what would happen when I did. But I just couldn’t do it any more.”

“Oh,” he said, not sure how to feel. He was glad he hadn’t cost Megan her job, but it was also clear that he didn’t need to charge in to her defense. She had been fine. But she had also been crying.

“Why did you get fired?” she asked. “What did you say to him?”

“Uh. It wasn’t what I said that was the problem.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“He was talking nasty about you,” Ginsberg explained. “So I - well. I threw something at him.”

A paperweight, to be exact. Poorly aimed, it had missed Don completely but knocked his decanter off its stand.

Megan’s eyes went round. “Oh my god. What did he say?”

Ginsberg shook his head. “Nope. I won’t repeat it.”

“You know she’s in tears?” Ginsberg had demanded, standing in front of Don’s desk. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“Anything I wanted,” Don had said, dismissively, snidely, like none of it mattered, like _Megan_ didn’t matter. That alone would have inspired Ginsberg to wipe the smug right off his face. But Don had to go that extra mile. “Why,” he had asked, “are you screwing her too?”

Ginsberg had seen red and snatched the paperweight off the desk, and so history was made. Pity it didn’t connect. Though he would have been in much worse trouble if it had.

“It means a lot,” she said, “that you stood up for me. I didn’t have many friends in that place. But, Michael -”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t go throwing things at people.” She shook her head and laughed. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I won’t make a habit of it.” Let’s go somewhere, he wanted to say. For a walk in the park. To a restaurant. Hell, to another movie. Anywhere.

She beat him to it. “You feel like coffee? We should catch up.”

They didn’t go far - just to a diner across the street from the theater. The vinyl seats were cracked with age but the coffee was freshly brewed.

Megan ordered hot water with a slice of lemon in it. “That all you’re having?” Ginsberg asked. “I’m paying.”

“I’m fine with this. I’ve been a little queasy lately, so I’m not taking any risks.”

“Stomach bug?”

“Probably,” she murmured, pushing the lemon around with a spoon and sloshing some water over the edge of her cup. Someone had left a newspaper in the booth and she used a page to blot it up.

He dumped some sugar in his coffee - too much, he wasn’t measuring - and she reached across the table and caught at his hand, curling her slender fingers around his.

“What’s this?” she said, looking down at his knuckles. He’d scraped the shit out of them on a piece of plywood - they were still pretty raw.

“Did it at work,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you boxing?”

“Ha. No.” He tried to tug his shirtsleeve down over his knuckles but it wasn’t long enough. “It’s a construction site, accidents happen.”

“Oh. So you aren’t -”

“No. You?”

“No,” she said, “though I’m not working construction.”

“I don’t think they’d hire you. Too skinny.”

Megan smiled but there was something off about it, and there were shadows in her eyes again. “I can bulk up, no problem. Just wait,” she said, and Ginsberg wondered what exactly they were talking about here.

“Where are you working?” he asked, because she was looking like she could use a change of subject.

“A law firm,” she said. “As a receptionist. Which is kind of a relief, after copywriting. I don’t think I’d want to do that again.”

“I would,” he said glumly. He missed it.

“How’s your Dad doing?” she asked, deftly steering the conversation towards less choppy waters. He told her some funny stories about the old man and she responded with one about how her friend Julia almost got busted for indecent exposure. They were on course again.

“Seriously?” he said. “On a rooftop?”

“It was supposed to heighten the experience. Can’t claim she isn’t adventurous. She thought they were high enough up that nobody would see.”

“You got some crazy friends. Julia’s the redhead, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m trying to picture it.”

She threw the newspaper at him, but it only made him laugh harder.

They lingered over their empty mugs until they ran out of excuses to stay. Megan wrote something on a napkin with a pen from her purse. “Here,” she said. “And you’d better use it. I mean it.” It was her phone number, underlined twice.

 

They made plans for the following weekend. One of Megan’s friends had an art show happening, so they decided to start the night there.

If Ginsberg bought some cologne for the occasion, then that was his business. He let the girl at the counter pick out something for him because he had no idea what to get. Anything had to be better than the cracked bottle of Old Spice that sat on the back of their toilet tank.

“You do know it’s not a magic potion,” Carmine said. He came along for the dual purposes of making fun of Ginsberg and flirting with salesgirls.

Later he lounged around the apartment, telling Ginsberg that he’d missed a spot shaving or that his shirt looked stupid. “What’s your girl look like?” he asked, turning on the T.V.

“She’s beautiful. And she’s not my girl.”

“She stacked?”

Ginsberg glared at him silently.

He held up his hands in surrender. “I get it. Be a gentleman.”

“As if you could.”

“You want my advice?”

“No.”

He kicked Carmine out and headed over to Megan’s. The sky was purpling with a late autumn sunset and the sun was red and low. It looked a ball of fire on the ocean. By the time he got there it was dark and her windows glowed out into the street like a beacon.

She was in her bathrobe when she answered the door, and he could tell right away that something was wrong.

“I threw up again,” she said. “But you’d already left when I called.”

“You still got that bug? Jesus, Megan. Go to a doctor. It could be something serious.”

“I’ve been to the doctor. I’m not sick - I’m fine. Healthy as a horse.”

“You sure about that?” She didn’t look fine, standing there with her mouth turned down and her hand on her hip. She looked pale and worn out and unhappy.

She might want to get rid of him - but if that was the case she could have stood him up proper. No, that was the face of someone who didn’t want to be left alone. That settled it for him.

“So we stay in,” he said. “Let me play nursemaid. I’m real good at it, I promise.”

One corner of her lips twisted up so it was almost a smile. “Thanks, Michael.”

She curled up on the couch while he got some ginger tea ready. “Your hands are still cold,” she said when he handed it to her.

“It’s getting chilly out.” He sat down next to her. “And I forgot my gloves, as usual.”

“A friend called me from California yesterday,” she said wistfully. “She spent the day at the beach.”

“Hooray for Hollywood.”

“I miss it, occasionally.” She shrugged and sipped her tea. “But after dropping out of the industry I didn’t have much reason to stay.”

“Ever think about going back?” He didn’t mean anything by it. His mouth was running faster than his head, like always. But she let out a long, shivering breath and put her cup down.

“There would be no point,” she said, bitter as black coffee, “because no one is going to hire a pregnant actress. Or an unwed mother.”

Oh. _Oh_. “You -”

“Are with child. Yes.”

“Does Don know?”

“You sound like my _mother_.” She crossed the room, hands on her temples. She had gone from washed out to flushed in an instant, ruddy with anger. “I thought you would understand, of all people. What kind of father do you think Don is? Why would I want that for my child? What if,” her voice cracked, and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, “what if he tried to take the baby from me? He could, Michael, you know he could. He hates me enough.”

He stood up. “That’s not what I was saying. What the fuck do I care about Don? I’m no friend of his. I just meant maybe he would give you money or something. Here,” he said, holding out his hands, “you’re in the family way - you shouldn’t be upset like this. Come drink your tea.”

She rolled her eyes but let him lead her back to her seat. “That baby is the size of a golf ball right now. I’m not worried.”

How fast did they grow? He had no idea. They really should give better information about this in hygiene class. Something beyond don’t get naked or you’ll get social diseases.

“And I’m keeping it,” she announced, like he was going to demand she visit the adoption agency tomorrow. “So I don’t want to hear any shit from you.”

“I look like a nun to you?” he asked. “Megan, quit fighting me. I’m on your side.”

Her shoulders slumped and she inhaled deeply. Calming herself down. “I’m sorry. I was just - I’m _scared_. And I’m alone.”

He couldn’t stand that she thought of herself like that. Forgotten about. Fuck Don Draper until ten years after he was dead. “You aren’t alone. I’m right here.”

“This isn’t your problem.”

“Problem? I thought we were talking about a baby.”

“What if I screw this up?” She sounded small and lost, worry lines creasing her forehead. “A child should have two parents.”

“I didn’t,” he said, “and I turned out - well. That’s debatable. But that isn’t Pop’s fault.”

“No,” Megan said, “He did a good job.” She smiled softly, some light coming back into her eyes. “My compliments to the chef.”

“You’ll be a great Mom,” he said, “I’d bet my life savings on it.”

“That’s what - twenty bucks and some lint?”

“Oh, I see how it is. See if I try to make you feel better again.”

She squeezed his hands. “Just wait until the pregnancy hormones really kick in. It’s all downhill from here.”

He stayed there all night because he didn’t want to leave her by herself. They ate toast because it was the only thing she could tolerate and watched an episode of Gunsmoke. She fell asleep fifteen minutes from the end, her head pillowed on his shoulder, a knit blanket tucked around them. He stared into the television, unseeing.

 

“If it isn’t Casanova,” Carmine said with a grin come Monday morning. “How’d the big date go?”

Ginsberg pulled on his hardhat. “She’s pregnant.”

“Holy shit,” Carmine said. His mouth was hanging open. “You work fast.”

 

He went to the library to do research. First he browsed the stacks on his own but he couldn’t find what he wanted - it was all written with third year medical students in mind. The vitals were all he needed; he wasn’t going to deliver the kid himself.

The librarian smiled in response to his sheepish questions. “First time father?” she said, real nice about it. “It’s okay. Nerves are more common than you’d think.”

She sent him off with a circular about the reproductive system and two textbooks, one basic and one advanced. An old lady glared at him when he tried to get through a chapter on the subway. He kept reading.

The baby books had only been in his possession for a few days when his father found them. Never any fucking privacy.

“What is this?” Morris said. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

“What the hell were you doing in my room?” Ginsberg demanded.

“I was looking for my blue sweater.”

“It’s out on the line - question answered.” He grabbed the book. “And this doesn’t belong to you!”

“ _Michael_ ,” his father said, mug on him like a thunderstorm. “I didn’t raise you to act like this. If you got some girl in trouble you have to do right by her.”

“Yeah?” Ginsberg yelled, “It isn’t my baby. So there!”

Morris put his face in his hands. He could have been praying or counting to ten. Then he said something in Polish, too rapidly for Ginsberg to keep up, and left the room in a huff.

 

Megan hadn’t been so at odds with her own body since puberty. Her balance was off; she bumped into everything and her legs were scored with bruises - it reminded her of being a coltish teenager, plagued by limbs that seemed to belong to someone else. She got warm very easily even as the temperature continued to drop and had to fight the urge to sleep with her window open. But the nausea was fading, and not a minute too soon.

She didn’t need to sleep as much, either, though she still liked a nap after work. The couch was big enough to stretch out on so she would go down for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. Michael was over during one of her siestas, reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. He had come straight from the job and had a quick shower and change at her place.

He hadn’t turned a page for five minutes. “What?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“You look pregnant.”

She cracked an eyelid. “I am pregnant.”

“Yeah, but now you _look_ it.”

She was wearing an old sweater and jeans from last winter, both of which used to be slightly too large. Not any longer - the jeans were tight across her thickening middle and the sweater strained distinctly against her breasts. She had gone up a cup size without noticing - it was time to get some new bras.

“Watch your step, buddy.” She propped herself up on her elbows. “You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

“Nah, you look great. You were a knocked-up sleeping beauty over there. Glowing, like they always say.”

He was looking at her with open interest, the bastard, and probably didn’t even know he was doing it. She flushed up because she knew that look, and that made her remember his hands on her, his lips on her, everything it was too late to have. The back of shirt was damp and he was laughing. It wasn’t fair.

This, too, was like being a teenager again, like being thirteen and discovering that if she stuck her hand down her pants she could make magic happen. She wanted sex all the time. It distracted her at the office and she lost sleep to raunchy dreams. Probably that was why marriage had been invented, she thought desperately. Because pregnant women needed someone around to get them off.

She semi-seriously considered ducking into the bathroom to take care of herself. She less seriously considered asking him to help out, which led to picturing all the ways he could do so in terrible detail. In the bedroom, on the couch, right there on the kitchen table.He wouldn’t have to get up, she could take off her jeans and straddle him where he was. Her pulse beat wet and urgent between her legs.

“People only say that,” Megan said, in a voice that was just about normal, “to try and make us feel better about getting fat.” She lay back down and closed her eyes.

 

It only got worse. Michael was around constantly. He made sure the fridge was stocked - as though she would starve if he didn’t - and even offered to take her to her doctor’s appointments. They spoke on the phone every night. Once she fell asleep listening to him, which he thought was hilarious.

“You gotta be the only person in the world who finds my voice soothing,” he said.

“I kind of do,” she said, switching the phone to the other ear. “I used to watch all these detective movies when I was a kid - you know, noir - so I thought everyone in New York sounded like you.”

“Only in Brooklyn. We’re lucky that way.”

When she came home furious that her work had moved her to the switchboard once she started to show he comforted her. “You want I should go down there and throw a paperweight?” he said, and joked her out of her shitty mood. The hormones sometimes became overwhelming and when she wept over a commercial or over nothing at all he petted her hair, shushing her gently, and told her it wouldn’t last forever.

He was acting like a husband. It was crazy. If Megan had any sense she would put a stop to it.

She didn’t. Instead she tortured herself, letting him come over whenever he wanted and seeking him out when he wasn’t there. The apartment was too big when she was alone and had nothing to do. The T.V. was no company at all. It didn’t make her laugh like he did.

He was making a sandwich at the counter when she came up behind him. “You smell good,” she said, “is that new?”

“Uh,” he said, putting the knife down. “I got it about a month ago. You like it?”

“I like it a lot,” she said dreamily, and pressed up against him to get better access. He was warm through his shirt and leaned back into her when she fit her hands to his sides. It was only when she realized that she was literally nuzzling the back of his neck that she stopped, horrified with herself, and staggered back.

Christ, she had _sniffed_ him. She was morphing into a cat in heat. Soon she would be stalking the alleyways for boyfriends.

“You okay?” he asked, and his cheeks were burning. Even Michael wasn’t clueless enough to miss out on what had just happened.

“Yes,” she said weakly. “But I’m going to go sit down.”

A week later he appeared at her door looking like the cat that got the canary. “I got a present for you,” he said, and then dove in front of her when she tried to look over his shoulder. “No, you can’t see it yet! It’s a surprise.”

“Ominous words,” she murmured, but let him usher her into the bedroom.

There was a lot of scraping and a few curse words. “Is it ready yet?” Megan called from where she sat crosslegged on her bed, nightgown spread over her knees. She rubbed her belly in the unconscious way she had been doing lately. There was a moment the other day when she thought she could feel the baby moving, a flicker deep inside that made her press her palm against her chest to try and temper her excitement.

“One minute!”

It took three. He opened the door and released her from her prison. There was someone with him - not someone she knew.

“Megan, this is Carmine. He’s responsible for your present and he helped carry it up the stairs.”

Carry it up the stairs? How big was it? “Thank you,” said Megan, shaking Carmine’s hand and feeling a bit bewildered. “Would you like a drink? I have some coffee.”

“No thanks,” he said. “I’m no third wheel.” He threw her a wink and left.

Michael turned her around. “Do you like it?”

There was a crib in her living room. It was white with yellow bedding. The blanket had ducks on it.

“Carmine built it,” Michael said. “He claimed if he let me do it I’d be making the poor kid a death trap. So I painted it. And look at this.” He walked over and picked up a fluffy brown teddy bear from inside the crib. It had a ribbon around its neck. “The lady at the store tried to sell me a clown, but no way. Clowns are terrible. Everyone hates clowns.”

“It’s _perfect_.” said Megan, and covered her mouth to hold back a sob.

His face fell. “This was supposed to make you happy.”

“It does,” She crossed the floor - ran to him, really - and took his dear, stupid face in her hands and kissed him.

\- and pulled back immediately, ashamed of herself. She had the worst timing in the world. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry.”

“Why,” he said, eyes huge and gleaming, “are you _stopping_.”

They had a few clutching makeout sessions before she could convince him to go any further. When she did it was largely an accident, her body doing the talking for her.

Their intention was to look at baby things in catalogues until she climbed into his lap, too touch-starved for embarrassment. “Please,” she said, and the window shopping was forgotten about. Now they lay on the rug with Megan on top, trading kisses at a frustratingly slow pace.

She got him stripped to his undershirt and bit the spot where his neck met his shoulder - not hard, just enough pressure. “ _Jesus_ , Megan,” he said, voice hoarse, and pulled her closer to him by the backs of her thighs.

“Yes,” she said, yes yes - she got his leg between hers, right where she wanted him, and rutted against it like an animal. She was absurdly wet, panties clinging to her - all the time, god, that was _normal_ now. She wondered if he could feel it. It felt too good to stop, chasing the orgasm she craved so badly.

“Oh,” he said, mouth falling open. He pushed up with his leg and she groaned through gritted teeth. “Like that - is that -”

“Yes,” she said again, feeling the tell-tale shudders begin, just a little _more_ -

He moved her, cupping her ass and dragging her up to straddle his waist, and she whined at being denied, resisted it bodily.

“Let me,” he said, urging her up and tugging at her panties ineffectually, getting them tangled up at her thighs, “let me do something for you, come here -”

She got her underwear off and expected him to slip a hand between her legs, or unzip, but instead he slid down until her knees were on either side of his chest. Then he lifted her skirt and leaned forward.

The warmth of his breath alone was enough to make her tense up; when his mouth touched her she slapped her palm flat against the floor and bit her lower lip. He kissed her, gently, a caricature of chasteness, and licked her in one long stripe.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and that was the last coherent thing to come out of her mouth. She couldn’t even say his name as he ate at her - the noises she made weren’t human. He pulled her legs apart, jaw working, pushed his tongue into her deep, and she panted like she was dying. All she could hear were the slick sounds they made together and he kept moaning - she felt it, right through her, every time. The room smelled like fucking and her thighs were slippery with spit and her own juices. It was _obscene_.

When he rubbed his tongue against her clit she came screaming. God, she had needed that so badly. Immediately she lost her balance, falling over to the side in a boneless heap. She tried to say something, failed, gave up and settled for patting at his hair blindly.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, running a hand up the leg that was draped across his chest. “And then I felt bad.” It made goosebumps come to life on her skin. She looked over and saw that he was rubbing himself through his pants with the heel of his hand, eyes closed and breath hitching. Her orgasm was still lingering but that was nothing, nothing - she could only think of how empty she was, how much she wanted him inside her.

“My turn,” she said, and undid his fly.

She kissed the taste of herself out of his mouth while she sank down his cock, shivering in relief when she bottomed out, cunt full of him. He looked like he was going to cry. “ _Megan_ ,” he said, agonized, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Come on, Michael.” She punctuated her words with a roll of her hips. “Show me what you’re made of.”

He took some coaxing - he was inexperienced, after all - but once he understood that he wasn’t going to hurt her he fucked her for real, bouncing her up and down, hands clutching her rumpled skirt. She tried to match his rhythm but her legs were wobbly from before, so she braced herself and let him do all the work. Let it take her - the ache in her cunt, being opened up by him, his wordless need - until her eyes rolled back into her head and she came again, seizing up and whimpering.

Michael cursed and buried himself inside her.That was it for him - his face crumpled and he ripped her skirt clean through on one side as he came. They curled together on the floor, floating on the aftershocks, and it was some time before he spoke. “Holy shit,” he said when he did, blinking rapidly like he was trying to clear his vision. “I think I wrecked your dress.”

“It was cheap,” she said, bubbling over with laughter, body thrumming with bliss, with joy.

She couldn’t get enough. Poor Michael - she had to be wearing him out. They only made it to the bed about half the time. On the couch, in the bathtub with the water spilling over -

\- in the kitchen, up against the counter, his coat still on because she didn’t give him time to take it off. “I thought about this all day,” she said as he pushed into her from behind, kissing the back of her neck. She grabbed the counter edge for purchase. “All fucking day, Michael -”

She made so much noise she had to stifle herself, clamping a hand over her own mouth, small hiccuping sobs escaping all the same. “ _Please_ ," she said, giving up, “I’m almost there, almost -”

He groped underneath her nightgown, two fingers rubbing between her folds, and barely had to touch her to finish her off. She went up on her toes when she came, face prickling with heat.

She tried to leave him alone at night, she honestly did, but she was so swollen and aroused that she couldn’t sleep. He murmured softly when she mouthed at his jaw and said, “Just once, just one more.”

“Here,” he said groggily, rolling her onto her back and pressing three fingers into her - it was easy, she was so sloppy, so ready for it. She gripped his wrist while he fucked her, feeling the tendons flex, hips rising up to meet him. She muffled her cries with the pillow when she came. It was the middle of the night and that was not a conversation she wanted to have with the neighbors come morning.

“Do you need anything?” she asked. He was half hard but also drifting off - she let him go, stroking his hair and listening to his breathing even out.

 

“We’re going to hell,” Megan said, after a particularly vigorous encounter. She was laying on her back with her arm over her eyes, letting the sweat cool on her skin.

“Pregnant Catholics aren’t allowed to have sex?” Michael sounded puzzled. She wouldn’t look at him. If she did she might want to go again. “That’s a weird rule.”

“Not pregnant. Unmarried.”

“Uh, Megan?” He settled his hand on the curve of her belly. “I think the cat’s out of the bag.”

She laughed. “Shut up. You -”

That was when she felt the baby move - really move, no mistaking it for anything else. “Did you feel that?” she said, cupping her belly with her palm. “That was a kick. I’m sure it was.”

“That’s crazy,” he said, whispering like he might scare the baby off if he was too loud. “I actually felt the little fucker.”

“Don’t call the baby a fucker,” she said, but she was too thrilled to care much.

“Okay.” He looked thoughtful. “Hey, you don’t think he can hear us, do you? I hope not.”

“Why?”

“Think about what we been doing, that’s why. I don’t want to traumatize the poor kid before he’s even born. And you get pretty -”

Megan glared at him.

“ - vocal,” he finished, because he never knew when to quit.

She hit him with the pillow. He richly deserved it.

 

Megan was in the middle of her sixth month when Ginsberg broke his arm. He fell off the scaffolding at work and landed on his side, his right hand thrown out to try and break his fall. A sharp bolt of pain shot up his forearm from wrist to elbow and he rolled onto his back, breathless with it.

“Fuck,” he said, eyes watering, injured arm held against his chest. “Not _now_.”

Carmine took him to the hospital. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck,” he said while they were in the waiting room. “You fell a long way. I thought you were dead for sure.”

“Maybe I can keep working,” Ginsberg said desperately. “I still got one good arm.”

“Man, to be honest - you’re kinda dangerous when both arms are functional. Why don’t you go back to copywriting? I thought you liked that, and also you can’t stab yourself with anything doing it.”

“It’s not that easy,” Ginsberg said, flinching when he tried stupidly tried to flex his fingers and it hurt like hell. “I haven’t been able to get in the door. And it’s not just about me, anymore.” He had some money saved up, but that wouldn’t last long. Not with a baby coming.

They sent him home with a cast and a bottle of painkillers. He kept trying to move the busted arm, forgetting that it was in a sling. It throbbed dully through the anesthetic haze.

Megan opened the door before he could knock. “Carmine called me,’ she said, and helped him get his jacket off.

“This is going to make everything harder,” he said when she was dishing dinner up. Some kind of pasta with chicken in it. His stomach rebelled at the sight of the food. He wasn’t sure if that was the painkillers speaking up or not. “I’m such a fucking klutz.”

She put the pot down. “Michael,” she sighed, and took his good hand, leading him towards the bedroom.

“The food’s gonna get cold,” he protested.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said, and stretched out on top of the covers. She patted the spot next to her. “Come here.”

They lay facing each other, legs tangled up. He couldn’t relax. “It’s just that it won’t be long before you have to stop working,” he said. “And now I’m out of a job.”

“My parents are helping me financially. You know that.”

But what if they decided not to. What if they got in a fight with Megan again. What if -

“I can see you thinking,” she said gently. “I want you to stop. We’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t know how to stop,” he said, all grouchy, and she laughed at him.

“Start by closing your eyes,” she instructed, “and concentrate on relaxing. Breathe in and out, slowly.”

She was humming something pretty and sweet. It could have been that, or the way she cupped his cheek when he shut his eyes as commanded, or an aftereffect of the pills - but it worked. He loosened up, felt the tension bleed from his back and shoulders, and the tornado that had been tearing his head to pieces blinked out, leaving the two of them, only them, holding on together.

 

Ginsberg was bringing in the groceries, bag propped up against his shoulder with his broken arm and fumbling for his keys with the other hand, when he saw a very familiar flip hairdo waiting for him in the hall. She was facing the other way, but he knew it was her.

“Peggy?” he said. “How come you’re here?”

“Do you ever answer your phone?” she said, and grabbed the groceries from him when they started wobbling. “I’ve been calling you for days.”

“I’m not home so much anymore,” he said, and left it like that even in the face of her curious look. The last thing he needed was news of Megan getting back to Don. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“A _job_ ,” she said, like it was obvious.

He blinked at her and stood there with the apartment door swinging open. There was no one inside - his father wasn’t home. “I can’t,” he said, and hated that he had to say no. But there was no other possibility. “I can’t work with Don again. Why would he even want me to come back?”

“Don’s not asking,” said Peggy. “I’m with Cutler, Gleason and Chaough now. So is Stan.”

“Stan? I thought Frank Gleason was their art director.”

“He took some time off to be with his family. I think he’s having some kind of health problem. Look,” she said, impatiently, gesturing at the door with the bag, “are you going to invite me in or not?”

He made her coffee while she put the eggs and milk in the fridge. “We lost a copywriter,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “He went to live on some hippie commune. I doubt he’ll last two days without takeout Chinese.”

“And you - you want me to take his place? For real?” If he held his mug any tighter he was going to break it.

She took a sip of her coffee. “Sure, why not? You’re a good copywriter. Don’t ever throw anything at me, though,” she warned. “I’ll kill you.”

He put his coffee down and beamed at her, holding out his arms. “Peggy. Come here.”

She stared at him. “Why. Oh, _no_. Ginsberg -”

He picked her up and spun her around, just like he had wanted to back when she first hired him. “You idiot!” she screeched, smacking him on the shoulder. “Put me down this minute.”

“Excuse me,” said his father from the doorway, lunch pail in hand. “Am I interrupting?”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” said Ginsberg. Peggy dug her nails into him like an angry cat.

“He was twirling me,” said Peggy, and then paused. “I realize that doesn’t explain anything.”

He set her gently on her feet. She went to get her purse off the table - slowly, and with as much dignity as possible.

“You start on Monday,” she told him, prim as a schoolteacher. “Mr. Ginsberg, it was nice seeing you again.”

“What?” said Ginsberg, after she left and Morris was giving him a sanctimonious look. “You’ve always wanted me to be some kind of lothario.”

 

“How long has it been since we saw anybody?” Ginsberg asked Marie, who was sitting in the chair next to him. She was bare-faced and her hair was coming loose from its braid, but her posture was perfect.

“I don’t know,” she said, acknowledging him with the barest flick of her eyes. He didn’t know why he bothered to ask her. She acted like he was something stuck to the bottom of Megan’s shoe.

“Hours,” he muttered. “It’s gotta be hours.”

They had been tripping over each other all week. Marie came down to support Megan and refused to go to a hotel, Ginsberg refused to go back home to his father, and Megan had washed her hands of both of them. She had more important things to worry about.

And now the time was here. Megan woke him up from a dead sleep, bag already packed and her face tight with pain, and said the most frightening words in the English language: “The baby is coming.”

“I hate her being in there all alone,” Ginsberg said. “They should have let me go with.”

Marie sighed and put down her magazine. He didn’t know how she could concentrate enough to read - he was climbing out of his skin. “Michael,” she said, sounding like something out of a foreign movie, “trust me when I say that what is happening in there is something no woman wants a man to see.”

“The doctor’s a man!”

“That’s different.”

“Then they should have let you go in. I’m going to go find a nurse - I can’t just sit here.”

He talked to two but neither of them knew anything. One had just started her shift and the other was from geriatrics. At loose ends, he wandered through the halls until he found a coffee machine and bought a cup of the watery brew. Not for himself - he couldn’t stomach it. But maybe it would thaw Marie some.

A jolt went through him when he saw Marie deep in conversation with a woman - one in a white cap and uniform. “It’s unorthodox,” the nurse was saying, “This space is really provided for the fathers.”

“Is It?” asked Marie, leaning back and crossing her legs. She had a cigarette lit and looked to be considering putting it out on the nurse’s eye.

“What’s going on?” asked Ginsberg. “Is she - do we know anything new?”

“No,” said Marie. “But I am sure this nice young woman will let us know if there’s any news.”

“Certainly,” said the nurse tightly, and left them alone.

Marie accepted the coffee. “Thank you,” she said, tracing the rim of the cup with a red painted nail. She didn’t drink any.

“I’m worried too,” Ginsberg said.

 

Two hours on and he was seriously considering calling his father. It was near dawn and Marie had nodded off, using Ginsberg’s rolled up coat as a pillow. He couldn’t take much more of this. Every time he heard the click of high-heels in the hall he expected to be told the worse.

He picked up the phone but didn’t dial. The old man would still be in bed and he didn’t want to disturb him unless - until there was something to be known.

“Mr. Calvet?” said a voice behind him.

This was a different nurse than the one from earlier. She was younger, with a round face and fair hair. Ginsberg swallowed, his throat dry. He couldn’t breathe. “Is she,” he tried. “Is she -”

The nurse smiled sweetly. “The baby is healthy, Mr. Calvet. And your wife is resting comfortably. You have a baby girl.”

He woke Marie up when he whooped, but she was just as happy as he was in her own understated French way.

The nurse took them to the viewing window. The baby was tiny and red-faced, wrapped up in a pink blanket and crowned with a little knit cap. She wasn’t crying.

“Oh my god, look at her,” he said to Marie. “Do you see her? She’s perfect. She looks like a bald monkey.”

Marie’s mouth twitched and something very like warmth appeared in her eyes. “So did Megan - but don’t tell anyone I told you that. What are you naming her?”

“Paulette,” Ginsberg said. “Megan decided on Paulette for a girl.”

They brought the baby in to Megan when she woke up. Ginsberg was already in the room, sitting in the chair by her bedside. She was pale and still tired, her hair stringy around her face. He wanted to get up on the bed with her but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Her hands shook when she took Paulette from the nurse and tucked her into the crook of her arm. “Wow,” she whispered, and stroked a finger down the baby’s scrunched up nose. “Hi. You look like a monkey.” She laughed. “My beautiful monkey,” she said, and then she was crying, but that was okay, that was okay, because so was he.

 

 


End file.
